*This is an erasure poem created from a sea captain’s
correspondence with a dear friend, circa 17th century*

I have the honor to be
that which I have lost

To accept my best
are slow in their motions,
Part of my Fortune

touched with a cautious & with a Delicate hand,
one of those lights Expressions which flow from
real Weight

(photo cred to C.H.D.)

Inches Only

It’s 4:02am and I’m struck
by my stubbornness again

I had stayed hot,
unchanging for too long

A slight shift of the head
yields a new cold to the pillow,
a different perspective
inches away

Would we have moved
if we knew it was that easy?
Inches, inches only.
Shit, man.

I still love you,
the good kind of
stuck and restless

I love you under
unbreathable sheets

I fight like kicked off covers,
knowing I’ll sleep
so damn deep for you 
once I find the sweet spot 

Inches, inches only.
Shit, man.


Firing Squad

A room of my peers,
telling me what I do and do not deserve.
Do they know I have my headphones on?
I respect you all so – I really do – but I am
not listening. I will not.

After all this time,
I have only memorized one song,
slight of body and sweating in its repetition.
“Say something different,” I dare it.

The lights are harsh. I ask for a glass of water.
Everything feels so sickeningly familiar.

Standing in front of the firing squad,
I can’t help but scrutinize back:

Who among them has stood inside
the body of his expanse and cried “Echo”?
They’ve whooped and hollered in canyons of their own,
ones I could not possibly map if I tried,
so why is their first response to discount
where a soul in love has been?

We’ve all lapped at the air between sighs.
All have stagnated in the aftermath of sprayed, salted insults.
All have pleaded with a deaf god for a life back.

Friends, leave me my delusions.
Let me paint his eyes on the backs of my own. Again.